(i say this mostly because only a disclaimer seems fair, so; i realize this may not be in the groove of this blog so far, but somewhere to begin again, finnegan. anyone know that old rhymesong?)


subway lips

a women holds her son's mouth on the NQRW
he leans into her palm
will he vomit, will he cry?

pressure necessary in the yellow light
and he, slightly uncomfortable releasing something
spitting his weight into her fingers
through lips, witholding a kiss

i imagine his mouth inside there as mashed
up against a glass, kissing for winter
or jack frost or steam marks
although they are probably more pliable
than that against her skin

remembering how i used to dart out my tongue
to lick the insides of the knuckles of those
who tried to shush me with their hands
a fourth grade trick, they had no choice but to whine

my mouth free, wiping against the seat of their pants

does this boy feel the weight of his mother's hand
on only his weight on her or as two papers in a pyramid
leaning margin to margin both weighing in

did he make a sound to deserve her hands, this silencing?
he squirms slightly, hips jerking backward
but does not pull away, he dances below the neck
to use the inactive muscles as his lips rest

his other hand grabs the bar for subway-steadying
he leans into her hands and away from her body
eyes open, wandering the train car
searching its advertisement, maps

and loose seat flaps for his stop